Arlo
A wince twisted my face as my knee slammed into the table, sending a flare of pain firing up my leg, and made me hiss in a breath.
Grumbling, I rubbed the knee and reached up to grab the lamp that had been jostled from where it was chained to the table.
It sent shafts of light wildly in every direction before I steadied it.
Looking down at the coroner’s report, I adjusted myself carefully to avoid smashing my knee again.
The number of times I’d whacked my knee on that leg should have made me aware of its existence, yet at least every other day, I did it.
My adoptive mother, Matilda, always said there were people with an internal rhythm that helped them navigate the world with a grace and smoothness that others could only envy.
While I had to admit there was a certain truth to it, I had always been less accident-prone than others, but that didn’t count for this, particularly cursed table leg.
There was a stool in my apartment that had the same curse.
No matter where I put that thing, it got in my way.
It had happened enough that I didn’t think it was unreasonable to wonder if it had developed sufficient sentience to get in my way purposefully.
That wasn’t possible, of course, but when you had been sent sprawling for the third time in a week by the same object, you couldn’t help but be suspicious… and superstitious.
A soft thump drew my attention before I could return to the report, and I looked around the room.
It was the same room as before, sterile in its flat, polished concrete floor, which made it easy to clean in case of a mess.
The cabinets were metal and glass for the same reason; some held the chemicals we needed to prepare the bodies for their services, and others held clothing, smocks, and tools.
The plastic strips hanging between this room and the room with the tables where we prepared the bodies flapped gently, but that wasn’t new; the AC that kept the basement cool was to blame.
It was the part of the building most people would never see and, quite frankly, would never want to.
People preferred their illusions when it came to death.
They wanted the show put on for them in the viewing rooms rather than the ugly reality of what happened down here.
They didn’t want to see the bodies sliced open, their organs removed, the work done to keep the unseeing eyes closed or to keep their mouths from gaping open when they were put on display.
Not that I blamed them; it was only human, after all.
It wasn’t our compassion or speech that made us human; it was our willingness.
..no, our need to create and believe illusions.
There were animals capable of ritual, but none did it quite like humans, or as often.
Ask anyone about the illusions of others, and they’d point them out.
Yet when forced to deal with their own illusions, people were blind and unwilling to see past their own biases.
Maybe deep down, we all suspected the illusions made us human, or at the very least kept us sane.
Reality didn’t play much of a part in most people’s lives.
Sure, they made plans when possible and tried to avoid the pitfalls.
That constant hope and attempt to fight fate were illusions of their own, but they were the sort of illusions that allowed people to get through their lives without succumbing to madness or ennui.
So let them avoid the nip and the tuck, the slicing and bagging that came with turning the body of their loved ones into another illusion.
One where some might tell themselves the deceased is sleeping or at least mention that they look peaceful.
Let them pretend the bodies aren’t drained and filled with chemicals to prevent the stink of rot from filling the room.
Let them imagine their loved one had died and been slid into the coffin, their hair flawless, their makeup covering up the pallor of death, and all the dirty little secrets of preparation locked away in sterile, cold rooms.
It was necessary for their grief and their sanity.
I sighed when I heard another soft scrape. “Mitchell, if you would stop trying to prank me, that would be wonderful.”
Another sigh came from the shadows, and the younger man came out of the back storerooms with a scowl. “I was hoping to freak you out.”
“I think it’s safe to assume you failed,” I told him. “Is that the only reason you’re lurking in the shadows, hoping to dole out a cheap scare? Halloween must be your favorite holiday.”
“Actually, I’m fond of the Fourth,” he said as he rolled one of the chairs forward and dropped into it. “Also, how do you manage to speak like you’re judging the hell out of me but your tone says you’re not?”
“One of my younger brothers asked me something very similar. I had no answer for him, and I don’t have one for you. You have to admit it would have been a cheap scare.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s part of the fun.”
“Perhaps you should try it on someone more superstitious.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never been down here, alone, in this creepy ass place, and never once been freaked out? Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
“Wow, you’re a cool customer there, Arlo.”
“Anachronisms aside,” I said, eyeing him.
“I have never seen any reason to believe that spirits of the dead exist, let alone linger on this side of the afterlife. Especially down here. If ghosts were to exist and wanted to haunt somewhere, I suspect they would stick to where they died, or perhaps somewhere that had meaning to them in life.”
“I just...find that hard to believe. All these dead bodies down here and...nothing?”
“They’re empty, Mitchell. The only thing to fear from them is potential diseases, and we have precautions to prevent the spread.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, and I noted a hint of discomfort in his voice, which wasn’t surprising since he had always been a little uncomfortable around the dead.
If anything, I was surprised he had come down here.
This was where the illusions were stripped away, and he always seemed far more comfortable dealing with the living and avoiding the dead.
Elaine avoided coming down here, though she probably didn’t realize I had noticed.
When she did, I suspected she wanted to prove to someone, probably herself, that she could be down here without being uncomfortable. “Still—”
I glanced at him. “Still...what?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed, pushing to his feet and walking to the plastic strips dividing this room from the preparation room.
He peered in, and I wondered if he was expecting a body to be laid out rather than tucked away in the coolers where they stayed until they were ready for preparation.
“Growing up, my brother and his friends loved telling me creepy, scary stories. Used to drive my mom crazy because I was such a scaredy cat, and my brother took advantage of it.”
“That sounds like an older brother,” I said with a snort, thinking of Mason and all his mischievous, occasionally accidental, mean ways.
“Yeah, you’d think I would have learned not to listen to my brother, but uh.
..apparently not. Took me years to realize he was full of shit,” Mitchell said with a snort.
“Still is actually, but it’s funny now. The number of times my parents nailed his ass to the wall for trying to screw with me intentionally, and he never stopped. ”
Yes, that was the overall theme of Mason’s story, without the scaring people.
“Anyway,” Mitchell said when I didn’t reply. “I guess that shit stuck with me. I’ve never been, like, constantly worried about ghosts and stuff. But sometimes I’ll get this creepy feeling like I’m being watched, you know?”
I glanced at him. “You might be, but I doubt it’s a supernatural presence. More likely a real person who has their sights set on you.”
“Ugh, if you weren’t you, I’d think you were trying to scare me. I get that feeling in the shower sometimes, man.”
“And you think it’s more likely a ghost is peeping on you while naked as opposed to a real person?”
“A ghost would have an easier time hiding in my tiny bathroom,” he said with a snort. “Ugh, unless there’s a camera...do you think?”
I looked and shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too off the mark to guess someone would want to see you bathing.
It’s more likely that you’re psyching yourself out than any actual spying going on.
That said, there are devices you can use to scan your bathroom to make sure there aren’t any listening devices or cameras. ”
“I’m still figuring out if you just called me ugly,” Mitchell said dryly. “Maybe I’ll take the risk of a camera and feel a little pretty.”
“You are very pretty,” I told him, deadpan. “The prettiest.”
Mitchell tucked the tips of his fingers under his chin, framing his face with the rest of his hand. “Thanks.”
“That was easy.”
“Now we’re on this topic—”
“Of you being pretty?”
“The prettiest, remember?”
“Of course.”
“But no, not the part where you stated the obvious, the part where you commented on my looks.”
I thought about it for a minute. “I...said it wouldn’t be too far off the mark that someone might want to spy on you while bathing.”
He leaned forward, squinting. “That’s the first time you’ve ever commented on someone’s looks in a way that could be...I don’t know, a hint that you might be interested in someone. Are you interested in me?”
“No.”
“Hey, I mean, it’s the twenty-first century, I’m not judging. Being attractive to both men and women is kind of nice, you know? Not that I’m going to take all suitors, but—”
“I’m not attracted to you, Mitchell.”
“Ouch.”
I gave a repressed sigh. “I am not personally attracted to you, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t attractive.”